


Tchaikovskian

by SkyborneVeggies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1812 Overture, Gen, Introspection, Loneliness, Mnemonic Memory, Nikolai Tchaikovsky, PAO - Freeform, PEG - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2019-04-24 14:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14357292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyborneVeggies/pseuds/SkyborneVeggies
Summary: After the years he's been away, Sherlock reflects on what had been a brighter moment in the midst of his loneliness.Originally posted on ff.net in Jan 2014





	Tchaikovskian

/ _17 June 2013, 8:17 AM_ /

Sherlock detested having to wait in the safehouse. There was nothing more he wanted to do than to run, out of the safety of his brother's cache & into the face of Moriarty's empire, facing the dangers as they came.

It was a foolish idea of course, and Sherlock was less inclined to taking chances this time around, now that the picture revolved around more than just him. But that didn't mean he hated having to wait any less.

He wanted to go home, oddly enough. He found it ironic. When he  _was_  home, he'd have done anything to find a case and get out from his flat.

But now he was stuck here. Somewhere cold, somewhere different, still stuck indoors, yet only this time without the comforts of familiarity. And that made it worse.

_"You're going to be staying in one of our safehouses in northern Russia. You will be cohabiting with of my hackers, who is, at the moment, postponed there indefinitely."_

Sherlock disliked this arrangement. He disliked sharing space with anyone not of his own choosing, and even if he didn't dislike the cohabitor, he himself didn't care to discern the difference as to the source of his contempt & chose to be quite sour with anyone who crossed his path regardless.

* * *

/ _18 June 2013, 4:32 AM_ /

The hacker was so bundled up in blankets that anyone besides Sherlock might not have noticed she was there. She hadn't bothered to acknowledge him when he walked in the room, so absorbed in her work as she was. Her eyes were glue to the screen, fingers scurrying around the keyboard without even so much as a pause.

Sherlock was secretly pleased. Not having to talk would give him to have more time to think, allowing him to concentrate on the finer details of his plan. He chose to ignore the voices in his ear, whispering him lies about loneliness and seclusion.

* * *

 

/ _20 June 2013, 4:44 PM_ /

The two had gone an entire 36 hours without speaking. Neither of them had slept, and Sherlock was conscious of a growing uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. He tried to shake it off, deciding that perhaps a quick wash might help bring him to his senses. He locked the bathroom door behind him and rinsed thoroughly.

Redressing, he entered the tiny living area that constituted the flat. He was greeted by silence.

 _Shame_ , he mused.  _The sounds of the keyboard last night had actually made an excellent substitution for white background noise._

The girl, who he now realized hadn't paused from typing throughout the night, was now gazing out the single window that graced the room. She was still spun in blankets, but Sherlock noticed a slight quiver present where her knees stretched out the fabric.

"Peg or PAO?" The girl suddenly turned her face toward him, tilting her head slightly. Sherlock blinked, unexpectedly.

"Sorry?"

"Your memory method. Do you prefer Peg or PAO." Sherlock drew himself upright.

"Each has its uses. I've incorporated both of them, along with other methods, in order to perfect my own personalized memory system."

"Mm," the girl murmured. It wasn't a bored sigh, or an arrogant sigh, but a soft sigh of agreement. The resigned tone caused Sherlock to believe that she was quite familiar with mnemonic memory. It had likely been a part of her life for a very long time now, probably introduced to her as a child in attempts to help bypass her ADD.

"You don't understand it," he ascertained.

"Mm?" The sigh was a question now.

"You've been studying the methods your entire life. You probably even know the steps by heart. But the simple fact that you even asked the question, "Peg or PAO", proves that you haven't understood the concept." He paused. "You'd be able to grasp the meaning if you simply practiced more, but your ADD prevents you from focusing because in actuality, you don't find the subject that interesting." The girl tilted her head again.

"You really are as good as they say, aren't you." A pause. "How did you know I have ADD?"

"Hyperfocus." He gestured to the computer. "You've hardly moved away from that screen since yesterday, not even to eat or sleep. You've also been indulging a subconscious tick by bouncing your knee. All this would imply that you are either diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder, which you obviously do not have, or attention deficit.

In your case however, the impairment is an asset. My brother would have only hired you if you were in the best of your field, and since your iq is hardly any better than 120 at best, the only reason for your exceptional skills would be the hyperfocus produced by your ADD. The induction is clear."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively as he finished his sentence. He paused dully, waiting for what was likely to be a huff of annoyance. Although, this girl did not seem to be an emotional type, so she might just respond with a few ambiguous "mn"'s like before. What he was not expecting, however, was laughter.

The girl chuckled softly, tossing her head to gaze out the window she'd been staring at. Sherlock didn't understand exactly why she was laughing. He thought it a bit strange for someone who had, up until now, adorned a perpetually monotone expression, but for some reason it didn't seem an altogether inappropriate response. It didn't seem like she was laughing at  _him_  anyways, so he didn't inquire. She parted her lips to speak again.

"You're schizoid, aren't you. Schizoid personality disorder?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Not psychopathic?"

"Definitely not."

"Interesting. Would you believe me if I said I was a high-functioning sociopath?" The girl snorted.

"Sociopath is a defunct term. Are you trying to insult what little intelligence you believe I have?" Sherlock repressed a small smirk.

"I do believe you're the first one to catch the pun."

* * *

 

/ _21 June 2013, 9:56_ /

Sherlock itched for his violin. He needed it, yearned for it. His mind was going into overdrive in the events of his inactivity, strategies whizzing about frantically in his mind, strangling up around eachother & tangling into knots. He  _needed_  his violin. To make everything still. To stop  _overthinking_  and start  _organizing_.

Sherlock curled up into a ball and pressed his hands to his temples. He was going to go mad.

He startled when he felt an abrupt thump against the couch where he lay. He looked up to see an instrument case nestled amongst the cushions.

"You can use my viola." The girl turned and traipsed back to her workstation. "I know it's not the same, but it's better than nothing. Despite the depreciating humour that comes with it." She nestled in her chair & buried herself under the blankets again. Sherlock was vaguely reminded of a fox, burrowing in its den.

He stood poisedly, pulling out the viola and tuning it accordingly. He didn't claim to be all that familiar with the instrument, but he didn't doubt he'd have it mastered by noon. He weighed the bow gently, relishing the way it felt between his fingers, before sweeping it across the strings. The instrument mellowed sweetly, and his mind was calm.

* * *

 

/ _24 June 2013, 11:49_ /

"Tchaikovsky." Sherlock brow furrows lightly.

"Schumann... "

"No, not the song," she shook her head. "Your disposition. It's very Tchaikovskian."

Tchaikovsky's most famous work is easily the 1812, of course.

It is a beautiful overture, grandiose, a considered masterpiece.

And yet...

_"It is very loud and noisy, but I wrote it with no warm feeling of love, and therefore there will probably be no artistic merits in it." ~ P. I. Tchaikovsky_

Sherlock suspects that she's giving him a warning, hidden within the subtext of a compliment. But perhaps she isn't actually that clever & he'd just overthinking it. He chooses not to respond either way.

* * *

 

/ _25 June 2013, 3:20_ /

"..."

There's a resolute moment of silence between them when the time comes for Sherlock to leave. It's not awkward though, and it's taken Sherlock this long to realize that he's going to miss it, this quiet companionship. He's wondering how it is going to be, now that he's leaving, all to his own.

He feels like he should regret it, regret allowing himself to grow accustomed not having to be alone. But to regret that would be to regret John too, and he can't bring himself to do that.

It strikes him, in a moment as he's crossing through the door, that he could have been her in another life. If he hadn't been born with his brilliant mind, if he'd been made into somebody..  _average_. The parallels flash through his mind in an instant, and he finds himself turning to face her.

"...I never asked for your name..." And she smiles again, the same smile, the only smile.

"No, you didn't." She fades from his mind.


End file.
